Page 76 of Off the Grid

Silence falls between us and Cruz sighs heavily. “Yeah, man. So have I.”

He meets my eyes and throws his hands up. We’re probably both thinking the same thing, feeling the same way. Glad he’s not taking visitors because then we’d have to see him and see what we could become. And feeling horribly guilty for feeling that too.

It’s fucked up all around and we both know it.

Voices come down the hallway and past the door where we’re sitting. The interruption welcome. “So F1. What’s your biggest challenge being up here?”

“Fuck, man. Can I opt for all the above?” I ask and we laugh.

“Yes, but from what I hear and see you’re catching up to speed faster than most.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. It means a lot.”

“It’s the same but so very different, right?” Cruz asks.

“Pretty much. The main thing I fear is screwing up. Not knowing the car enough that I end up causing a crash. Hurting people. That kind of shit.”

“Hey, my competition is fair game. I’m not.” He jokes as he rises from his seat and pats me on the shoulder. “Time to go face the cameras. Let’s hope that ugly mug of yours doesn’t break any of them.”

“Is that all you’ve got, Navarro?”

“Nah. That was a warm-up. I’m just getting started.”

“Great. Fucking great,” I say through a laugh as we enter the press room.

“If I don’t get a chance to tell you tomorrow, good luck. Finish high but finish behind me.” He belts out a laugh as we take a seat and Q&A with the reporters begin.

Most questions are asked to the established guys. How’d they feel last race? What adjustments are being made to their cars if any? How do they feel their chances are this weekend?

Benign questions.

Softballs being tossed up for them.

It’s weird sitting up here, with the F1 backdrop and the banners in front of us. Many of my dad’s interviews that I memorized were taken with a setting of this sort.

It makes me think of him, smile, and wonder how he felt about pressers. I know how he answered the questions, but did he mind being asked them? Did he roll his eyes at them or was he so focused on the task at hand that they didn’t matter?

“What about you, Riggs? Are you ready to put the third race under your belt tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“This was a great track for your dad. He had a lot of fortune here. Does that cross your mind at all?”

Every damn time I get in the car.

I have to overcome the fear. The expectation. The history with its invisible strings, the people in this room, and the memories that restrict me.

“How can it not?” I smile and answer as honestly as I can.

“It seems you’re fitting in well with Moretti. The fans have taken a liking to you with your advice column posts.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun and interacting with the fans. They love this sport as much as all of us on stage do,” I say and I can see Anya’s smile widening in the back of the room, clearly pleased with my response.

“Are you afraid it’s going to distract you and your focus from racing and the safety of the other racers?”

And there it is. The question they’ve tiptoed around for the last few weeks. And no surprise it’s Harlan fucking Flanders.

“Are you asking me if I’m my father?”